


A Single Person's Guide to Finding The Path to Love, or, Booty Shorts

by pendragonfics



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Action, Blood, Crushes, Cute, F/M, Fascism (mentioned), First Aid, Fluff, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Guns, Gunshot Wounds, M/M, Swearing, Unrequited Love, Valentine's Day, gender neutral reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-28 21:58:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17795495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pendragonfics/pseuds/pendragonfics
Summary: There's one thing to have a crush on an emotionally unavailable guy. It's another to have a thing for Frank freakin' Castle, AKA, the Punisher. But, truth be told, he's only human, and so are you.That's your excuse for buying the booty shorts.





	A Single Person's Guide to Finding The Path to Love, or, Booty Shorts

**Author's Note:**

> This fanfic came to being because got so gottdarn THIRSTY on Tumblr a week ago, when I saw [this](https://susiephalange.tumblr.com/post/182741453114) gorgeously drawn pic on my feed:  
> 
> 
> Anyways, I'm kind of proud for getting this fic written on somewhat of a deadline (yeah, I'm late for Valentine's Day, don't roast me, I'm not a peanut) and there's a week until uni goes back and sure, my posting will come slower, but hey. I wrote something. Yay! Anyways, let's get onto the fic?

The thing with Frank Castle was, apart from the fact that he killed killers, he had little time for other things than his occupation. That was just the way with him. You didn’t mind that fact when you met him first, and really, you still didn’t mind it now. Honestly. You were more friends than…anything else with the man. Only that.

Your relationship with Frank Castle, it was…casual. Yes. It was a relationship of convivence, to him, and to you too. No need to put a word, or a title to it. Frank would need a stitch or two in his arm, a body to lay beside at night. You knew how to sew, and well…there was the Castle allure that made you fall for him. Hard (which was ironic, considering that he was somewhat emotionally unavailable).

You didn’t say a word of course, but you hid those thoughts and feelings away from him. Feelings were a distraction, in his line of work, and with you as just a helping hand. You weren’t so much a fellow excommunicate from society as Micro, more…alienated from the public eye (thanks to your skillset).

TLDR: it really wasn’t worth the trouble to admit your feelings for him.

That was why it became a surprise to you when you found the briefs. It was supposed to be a routine run to the nearby mall that hadn’t left the 80’s décor-wise; stock up food since Frank started eating Micro’s and your supply to nothingness, prep for the upcoming change of seasons with discount clothes, keep a low profile. Except, in the department store which you were in, you found something that wasn’t so… _necessary_.

You knew his size, because of the chore shifts with laundry, and seeing it made you bite your lip, and wonder. It felt almost scandalous, holding a pair of boxer briefs that could only suit one man that you knew, and, knew that he’d never appreciate the gift. Just as you were about to place the undergarment back on the folded pile on the shelf, a fellow shopper walked by.

“ _Menace to society_ , huh?” she spoke with a heavy Jersey accent and smelt of peppermint and menthol. “When my kids were growing up, the craze was _juicy_. What’s this world coming to?” She shook her perm in dismay and kept on her way.

That almost made you put the boxers back on the shelf. But that was when a flashy pink sign by the women’s wear section caught your eye, reading the aggressively lovely font: _Don’t Forget Valentine’s Day, February Fourteenth!_

In a split-second decision that you didn’t know would cause a pandemonium, you walked toward the register, in a fit of defiance.

When you got back, you dolled out the goods from the store, putting everything away as Frank and Micro were crowded over some surveillance footage on a computer screen. By the time that all the foodstuffs were away, you hadn’t realised that Frank had wandered over to help you, and in the split-second you realised, you were face to face with him.

“Jeez, Frank,” you laughed, albeit breathlessly, “You need heavier boots, I didn’t hear you coming.”

He shook his head. “You know these boots are fine as is.” He replied, curt yet courteous. Gesturing with a hand toward the pallet with the heavy lifting of the water supply, he added, "Need a hand lifting that stuff?"

You shook your head, _no_ , but he didn't take it for an answer, and walking around you, he grabbed it like it was a kilo of feathers (not steel). Left standing there, you watched as Frank placed the water into its designated place, but your eyes wandered, and you saw the briefs laying half-in the bag that they came in. A heady blush came over your face as you saw them, and unable to conceal it, Frank saw it as he turned, his job done.

“What I do?” he asked, gruff.

You shake your head. “I - nothing.” You shake your head again and move to gather the bag and the item that barely was hidden inside of it, but Frank was quicker, and got to it before you. “Hey!” you cried out, feeling embarrassed.

“Did you buy…boxer briefs?” he asked, confused, holding them so that he only saw the front.

You nodded, unable to avoid the fact. “I - it’s nothing, Frank. I -,”

He shook his head. “My last good pair got torn last time I went after the new gangs that were forming in Harlem,” he gave a short chuckle, that sounded more like a snort than anything. “How much do I owe you for ‘em?” he dug a hand into his pocket, spare change rattling.

You shook your head, taking a step back. “It’s fine, really, Frank.” You gestured to the water he’d just lifted, “How about its some sort of repayment for taking that water off of my hands…and not straight up murdering us when you met Micro and me?”

It was then when Frank _really_ laughed, unlike before, and stuffing the boxer briefs in his back pocket, he gave you a grin that melted your heart, and went on his way.

* * *

To be honest, in the weeks that came to pass after that, you forgot that you had ever made the purchase, let alone _gave_ the boxers to Frank. It went in with the other things in the washing, and in days, you were on the other end of the chore wheel, cleaning the kitchen area after everyone, making semi-decent meals, three times a day. That week passed, and by the next two weeks when it was back to laundry, the boxers were barely a memory in your mind, but they were in circulation of Frank’s wardrobe.

It just so happed to be a Friday when you all were sitting around the makeshift table, with Micro’s idea of cereal before you all.

“It was Valentine’s Day yesterday,” he said aloud, sounding glum. “…I miss Sarah.”

“Yeah, well, at least you have a ‘Sarah’ in your life,” you reply through your mouthful of cereal, and instantly regretting your smart mouth, you added, “- even if you never see her.”

“Yeah, man, way to rub it in.” Frank snubbed, buttering his toast.

Micro raised his hands in defeat. “What, is it a crime now to be separated from your loving wife?” he asked, bewildered. “Look, I get it,” he says, looking to the both of you. “You’re widowed, you’re forever alone -,” he keeps speaking before Frank or you could interject, “but why _shit_ on the guy whose wife is literally the _hottest_ woman in the world and can’t see her because of - of the shitty government?” he retorted.

“Touché,” you mumbled, pushing your cereal around in the bowl, and fed up, you got up from the table. “ _and_ for your information, David Lieberman, I’ve had relationships before.”

Micro smirked. “What was his name, George Glass?”

You smacked the back of his head as you walked off, ignoring the low hoot from Frank, the howl from Micro.

You apologised later of course, but that was after Micro did first. You were both surrounding a screen, watching Frank as he took down a group of fascist-aligned white boys when you watched it happen. There was a faceoff - Frank went in guns blazing, as usual, and almost dominated the assholes. It was like watching the Super Bowl, but live, no ads, and there was a lot of blood. Frank looked like he was winning.

But that was until you checked a feed that hadn’t been relaying on real-time, and eyes wide, you lurched toward the microphone that connected you to Frank’s earpiece, “Punisher-watch your six!”

But before you finished your sentence, you watched, in abject horror, at what unfolded. Frank was on the ground, trying to reload his handgun when the guy walked in. He wore a plastic clown mask, and a MAGA hat. The showdown took less than ten seconds; eight shots were fired in all, three hitting the fascist, three in the wall behind the guy, and, two, to your horror, hit Frank’s side as he fled for cover.

“Oh, _fuck_!” you cried out, slamming your hands down. You looked to Micro, and silently, he looked to you.

You made up your mind, and then, in less than a minute, you had grabbed keys from the spot under the desk and, running to the backup van, you got in, and before Micro could protest, you were away.

Roaring down the street and around the corners of the city, you programmed the GPS to Frank’s last destination from his car, and barely out of the suburb, you heard the remote radio chime in with Micro’s voice, “This isn’t a regular flesh wound, ________.”

You ignore him, swerving into the opposite side of the road, and going through a set of traffic lights, you return to abiding to the regular traffic laws. As you pass into the part of Hell’s Kitchen where Frank was, an industrial area, you hear Micro speak up again. “Be prepared for what you’re going to see.”

At that, you grab the radio at that. “Don’t talk to me like I’m one of your kids, Lieberman.” You shoot back, driving on the pavement momentarily to avoid hitting a jaywalking pedestrian.

“You’ve dealt with a lot, I know. But this is Frank’s world.” Micro replies, softly. “I can see - the screen - ________, there’s a lot of blood.”

“I’ve seen blood before,” you retort, “and Frank’s world or not, he’s a part of our team, and I’m helping him. No matter what.”

You swerve into the parking area in a last-minute turn, and parking, beside a familiar vehicle, you shut off the engine, turning Micro off, and tuning him out of your brain. Grabbing the emergency pistol from the glove box, you made a beeline to the external entrance of the building, just like Frank would have when he came to interrupt the gang’s meetup.

You clamber up the stairs, a familiar area from the surveillance you had just been watching not ten minutes before. As you went further up and up, you could hear Frank, and smell the _smell_.

When you opened the door, you were hit with the stench. It certainly wasn’t just the fresh coat of blood around the room that made it this way, but it was made worse by the fact that there wasn’t any ventilation at all.

When you saw Frank, sitting up against the wall, you ran to him, pocketing the pistol. It was then you took him in; sweat coated his forehead, blood that wasn’t his smeared from his ear to the corner of his mouth. Looking into his eyes, you registered he was conscious - also, the bitch of a glare he was giving you.

“Get over yourself, this is a rescue party.” You returned the glare, moving your hands to where Frank had secured his belt as a tourniquet, but it was high up. Not a good sign for your limited first aid skills. “Can you stand?” you asked.

“It’s not like I’ve never been shot before.” He replied, going to stand. But even the movement to prepare to stand was enough to make Frank Castle wince. “…I just need support to get there.”

You nodded. “Just as long as you apply pressure, I’ve got you, Frank.” You spoke soft, and after some time of struggling, you both were walking, albeit slowly, away from the crime scene.

* * *

“We didn’t leave a trace at the scene, you know, apart from all those bodies.” You spoke hastily to a worried Micro, cutting Frank’s pants off. “This ain’t my first rodeo. Plus, I set Frank’s car on fire. You’re welcome.”

“I don’t know how you’re not ten feet under, Frank.” Micro shook his head. “It looked bad.”

Frank said nothing, and when you looked to his face, you saw his jaw was set, almost as if it was locked into place, a grimace. The tourniquet was a great help, but it was a touch too tight, and as you undid the belt, from the corner of your eye, you saw Frank’s lips get thinner.

“Okay, good news,” you said, working quickly to clean the area with a liquid flush, “The two shots turned out to be one, and a graze.” You work on removing the pants completely, and as you snip the rest, Micro tugs them off, a minimal helper at best. “The other shell…there’s an exit wound. And there isn’t - it’s not a major artery! Thank _fuck_!” you whispered.

“Oh, screw you Frank,” Micro cursed, albeit more vanilla than you.

“I’d be dead if it weren’t for ________.” Frank says, after a beat.

Everything in the room goes silent, still. Even the ever-moving anxious Micro, and you, who should be continuing the clean-up and preparing for stitches. The computers’ hard drives stopped whirring, the creaking of the bunker ceasing all together.

“I’d be dead if it weren’t for ________,” Frank repeats, in the same voice. “I thought I had ‘em all. They - they told me about the last one, and I managed to get a shot in.”

“Three, actually,” Micro whispered.

“-and then they drove to get me? As we got out, I could hear the sirens closing in. I would’ve been toast.” He looks to you, a small smile on his face. “I owe you one.”

Micro frowns, and looking to him, you watch as he says, in a confused tone, “Frank, since when do you wear anything but plain underwear?”

At that, you feel your face heat up. You’d forgotten until now.

“What the _hell_?” Frank retorts, confused.

Even though there’s drying blood on your hands, you sink your head into them. “Oh no…” you barely whisper.

“Well, they say ‘ _menace to society_ ’ right on the ass.” Micro adds, clueless to the turmoil that was spinning through your brain like a washing machine’s cycle. “Like, in Ariel? Or Helvetica?”

“Um, David, could you grab some more gauze, uh, from the supply room?” you asked, trying to salvage your pride, and staunch both Frank’s wounds and your looming embarrassment. “Please?”

Seeming to get it, he retreated, no questions asked. Once you were both alone, you looked to Frank. Your face was red, under what smears of his blood had gone on there, and he saw it with a sort of reluctant air that came from misunderstandings and betrayals.

“You gave me booty shorts,” Frank said, at the same time as you said, “I should have told you about the boxer briefs!”

You were both in a silence after that, and slowly, Frank’s face broke out into a smile, one which made his many-times broken nose look even lovelier, his teeth peek out from his mouth, spread so it touched his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” you tell him. “I got them as a Valentine’s gift for you, but after you saw them in the bag, I lost the nerve to tell you about the print on the back,” you say. Noticing his leg is just sitting there, you get to work, busying yourself with wiping, and applying gauze and tape. “I - I’m sorry I embarrassed you in front of David.”

Frank shakes his head, as if clearing out thoughts that had sat there for too long. “Why didn’t you ever say anything?” he asked, and added, awkwardly (much unlike his usual way of being; perhaps to do with the blood-loss?), “I think you’re a menace to society. Too.”

You can’t help but laugh. “Is that true?” you ask him.

Frank nods as you finish dressing the graze that the other bullet left on him, “Yeah. You’re crazy behind the wheel.” He sighs. “and I - I think I’m crazy for you.”

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on Tumblr on as @chaotic--lovely, and if you want to request a fic, check out [@pendragonfics](https://pendragonfics.tumblr.com/request_conditions)! ʕ·ᴥ·ʔ✿


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